Neither location nor legitimacy

matters.

Fish now swim through the

libraries of Atlantis, while the scrolls

and tomes of Alexandria

wick like candles

and burn for weeks.

A boy's secret stash (at ten it is comic books

he hides; at twelve it's porn) is tossed

out by his mother, while in the computer

age, copyeditors and proofreaders

are replaced by the software equivalent

of idiot savants.

Nor must an actual physical

building be involved: a single

neuron in the brain, misfiring

or calcifying, might be repository

enough for loss. What once was

capturable as vision or verse

now becomes dross, engulfed

by darkness, untidied by the

weather, continental drift, old age—

virtual dogs eating too real homework.

Hence words vanish; formulae become

re-encrypted; poems die

on the vine, like unwatered grapes.

Typos multiply or are sanctioned

by spellchecking drones.

Let us therefore accept the inarguable:

Saint Murphy has always been right

and chaos will continue to leak

from the faulty nib of the universe.

Nevertheless, it is possible to stand

against the tide. The most important thing,

which not only combines consolation

and panacea, but may also help resolve

the loss, errors, and corruption—

Hold on a second. Someone is knocking

at the door.